


Broken

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: fanfic100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-08
Updated: 2006-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wish you didn't remember, but your mind has always been sharp and every image is stark and clear, like bold black lines on crisp white paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season One  
> Written for LJ's Fanfic100 Community  
> Prompt 71: Broken

You wish you didn't remember, but your mind has always been sharp and every image is stark and clear, like bold black lines on crisp white paper.

You remember the way your hand hovered above his chest. It was shaking, you were shaking, and you were afraid to touch him. You didn't want to hurt him, which seems ridiculous now, but then... then there was a crimson tide soaking into the asphalt and the thick stench of copper in the air. You remember leaning close, your mouth hovering above his, and feeling a puff of warm air from his lips, just barely there, and you remember closing the distance and touching your lips to his and murmuring all the things you should have told him when you had the chance. You remember the 911 operator telling you to hold on -- _hold on, sir, the ambulance is on its way_ \-- and her voice was cold and impersonal and she didn't know that he was dying, dying in a musty parking garage in a rented tux and there was nothing you could do. You remember Hobbs, the scuttle-scrape of his knees on the cement as he tried to crawl away and his moans of pain, and you remember thinking that you'd do anything just to hear something from Justin's lips, something, anything more than that barely-there whisper of breath.

The paramedics lifted him carefully and treated him with respect, and you were grateful to them for that.

The scarf fluttered to the ground and when you picked it up, it seemed to sigh against your fingers. You remember that.

You don't remember calling Michael. You just know that he was there when you needed him, like he always is. His hand stroked your neck, and when the police came and asked their questions, he held your hand and squeezed your fingers tightly in his and your voice cracked and bled but you could answer because Michael was there.

Your eyes burned. You wanted to close them, but whenever you did you saw his face, smiling at you over his shoulder as he walked away. You felt the weight of unspoken promises. So you kept your eyes open, because even the veiled accusation in Jennifer's eyes was better than that.

* * *

When Michael pressed a sandwich in your hand on the second day, you ate it without complaint.

There was a rotating group of family and friends by then, with you and Jennifer and Michael as the constants. The doctor addressed Jennifer when he came by with updates, but you stepped up by her side and listened and didn't outwardly cringe when he said things like _exploratory surgery_ and _relieving the pressure on the brain_ and _he's a strong boy, that will work in his favour_. Jennifer didn't talk to you but she didn't try to stop you from listening. You were grateful for that, too.

Towards evening, Michael convinced you to go home and change your clothes. You agreed only after you spoke to Deb. You took her hand -- her fingers so warm, you didn't realize you were so cold -- and you said _Call me_. The voice didn't sound like your own. And it seemed like you should say more, but she gripped your hand and ran a palm softly down the side of your face and you let yourself close your eyes, just briefly, and she whispered _I will, honey_.

* * *

You set the water to hot, hotter than you usually like it, and then you placed the scarf carefully on the vanity and slid out of pants, briefs, jacket... but the shirt was stuck to you, dried blood had gummed the shirt to your chest, and you felt the tug on your flesh as it pulled away, heard the scratch-pop as you tore his crusted blood from your skin, and you vomited noisily into the toilet while Michael waited obliviously in the kitchen.

Your chest was red and raw when you finished scrubbing it off. And you relished the pain. You deserved it.

The water had turned cold and Michael was lurking outside the frosted doors when you finally stepped from the shower, feeling clean but not cleansed. You crossed to the vanity and your hip bumped the edge of the counter and the scarf slid forward in a spill of white and rust. You caught it deftly and brought it to your face. It still smelled like him -- like youth and exuberance and endless possibilities -- and you clutched it to your chest and you prayed. Even though you don't believe, you prayed.

You draped the scarf carefully around your neck and you promised that you'd leave him alone, you'd be alone, that if he was granted a life to live you'd let him fucking _live it_.

You remember everything, but as you head back to the hospital to find out if he's going to live or die, you remember that final vow most of all.


End file.
